


Queen of the Neighborhood

by FavorsTheFoolish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Allison, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, F/F, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Interview, Past Jackson/Lydia - Freeform, Punk AU, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavorsTheFoolish/pseuds/FavorsTheFoolish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw the picture, and I couldn't resist offering to pinch hit.  I really hope that this fic does the picture justice.</p>
<p>The NME interviews Lydia Martin and Allison Argent, the punk rock power couple behind the band Shady Hawkins, about how they met. They’re as honest as they can be, but they get across what they love about punk, and each other.</p>
<p>[The NME Cool List, if anyone hasn't heard of it.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NME%27s_Cool_List]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of the Neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thnksfrthwilliam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thnksfrthwilliam/gifts).



> Miscellaneous warnings: The most referenced song in this piece is Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," does contain a reclaimed homophobic slur, though that part of the song isn't quoted in the fic.
> 
> Some violence, physical restraint, parent-child arguments, a breakup.

> _** NME:  ** So you started Shady Hawkins when you were in high school together, is that right? _
> 
> _** AA: ** Yep. I’d just moved to town.  _
> 
> _** NME:  ** And it was love at first sight? _
> 
> _** AA: ** Well— _
> 
> _** LM:  ** Reducing our creative synergy to a burst of oxytocin is sort of dismissive, don’t you think? _
> 
> _** AA: ** —kind of. _

 

This was their tenth break up, and the sixth detente of cardboard boxes. 

 

“My Dolce crewnecks had better be in there,” Jackson sniffed, handing Lydia the box he held while simultaneously taking hers and stepping away quickly, like she might try to grab both and run for it. For something as innocuous as boyfriend sweaters, stray bras and photographs, he managed to make these hand offs feel like a hostage exchange every time. 

 

“They are,” Lydia answered, lifting a book to make sure a particular pair of shoes had been returned. “You should get rid of the new one though. Terra cotta is a horrible color on you.”

 

His lip curled and his nose twitched in the little sneer-smirk he defaulted to when he didn’t think someone was funny, but couldn’t think of a counter-insult. She gave him an extra second or two to come up with a zinger before she rolled her eyes and left. Her generosity had limits. 

 

Ten break ups. 10 to the first . A small number in the infinity of all numbers. Lydia set the box down in front of her locker. This tenth break up, she’d changed the lock. It occurred to Lydia, somewhere in between packing Jackson’s belongings into a box and driving out to the 24-hour big box store at 2 am to purchase a new combination lock, that 10 to the first  was a nice, neat, rational number. Driving back home, she came up with a little joke: When is ten not a rational number? When it’s the number of times you’ve broken up with the same boy. 

 

It was an inside joke; you had to be there.

 

The dial of the new lock didn’t have the quite the same feel as the last one’s. She opened her locker and put the returned books and shoes inside, closing her eyes in brief aggravation that the clothing she’d left at Jackson’s had been haphazardly tossed into a plastic grocery bag before sticking it in as well. 

 

The four times they’d broken up without boxes being involved, Lydia had broken up with him, in theory, in her head, and never gotten around to telling him, or Jackson had called things off during the school day and changed his mind by text before morning, usually leaving flowers or an apology note in her locker. They just kept going. She pulled out her history and econ textbooks, snapping the new lock back into place and spinning the dial. It felt strange, but she’d get used to it.

 

The looks she got from other students as she walked to history ranged from voyeuristic to sympathetic to indifferent to smug. The first couple times, Lydia had been embarrassed by this, that everyone knew so quickly, that  everyone  in Beacon Hills high school knew what it meant when she had a cardboard box at the beginning of the school day. This time, she met every look with a steady stare broken by a slow blink of boredom. She issued a non-verbal challenge to all onlookers to get a new hobby, nothing to see here. Most of the curiosity subsided once she dropped the empty cardboard box by the recycling bin on the way to class. Danny (her friend, Jackson’s  best friend, because leave it to Jackson to be competitive about that too) fell into step next to her. 

 

“You okay?” he asked with a tiny smile. Lydia shrugged.

 

“I’ve had enough practice,” she replied, looking back at the cardboard box.

 

“That’s not a yes,” Danny pointed out. 

 

“Well, it was supposed to be,” she said as they stopped outside the door of her classroom. “I  am  fine. I think I’m probably even more bored with it than you are.”

 

Danny hugged her, kissing the top of her head.

 

“Not possible,” he laughed, then let her go, hurrying so his detour wouldn’t make him late. 

 

Danny always told Lydia and Jackson both that he suffered the most during their break ups, because he had to listen to both sides without any of the fun parts. Sitting down at her desk, Lydia realized that even volatility could get dull over a long enough period of time. Somewhere along the line, hypervigilance about the state of her relationship had turned to complete indifference. She got her book and notebook out, pen ready, prepared to pay attention when attention needed to be paid as their teacher walked in.

 

“Class, we have a new student,” Mr. Weston said, breaking the expected pattern by standing next to a new girl. She taller than Weston, dark hair, fair skin, very pretty, with a combination of clothing that made Lydia unsure if she was a potential competitor in the arena of champion high school fashionista. Her jacket was very flattering, possibly Ralph Lauren, but her jeans looked more actual vintage than distressed, and Lydia couldn’t make out what was written on her t-shirt. The new girl shifted her weight from foot to foot slightly, but her eyes scanned the room with an intensity that was more restless than nervous.

 

“This is Allison Argent,” Weston continued. The girl smiled, but it still seemed like she was too big for the room, or maybe the whole building. “Please do your best to make her feel welcome.”

 

He started looking around the room for an open seat, and that tripped a switch of decisiveness in Lydia’s brain.

 

“Ryan doesn’t mind moving,” she said, smiling sweetly at the boy in the desk to her right. Ryan blinked in surprise, but got up quickly when Lydia tilted her head very slightly, eyes hardening. 

 

“Thank you, Ryan; Allison, Lydia can make sure you’re all caught up.” 

 

Allison nodded, more to herself than to anyone else, and took Ryan’s vacated desk. 

 

“Thanks,” is all she said before the class got under way. They both focused, Lydia silently touching the spot on the page Weston indicated to show Allison where they were picking up, then handing her a pen when she went digging through her bag. When the bell rang, they both stood and packed up their belongings.

 

“Would you mind if I hang onto this?” Allison asked, fiddling with the pen.

 

“Not at all. I’ll make a copy of my notes and give them to you next time,” Lydia answered. “That’s a nice jacket.”

 

Allison gave a rueful grin at that.

 

“Doesn’t look like my mom dresses me for school?” she replied, lifting the jacket, a not-quite royal blue with white edging, which allowed Lydia to see her t-shirt underneath. It was pale green and so old that it had tiny pinprick holes in it, the words “Doctor Teeth” barely legible below the collar.

 

“...are those Muppets?” Lydia asked. Allison’s grin bloomed wider and more sincere, and Lydia decided in that moment that Muppets were amazing.

 

“I love the combo,” Lydia said. “The preppy jacket and the vintage shirt.”

 

Allison looked at herself, like she hadn’t really considered the two together.

 

“Thanks, I guess it does kind of work. My mom was a buyer for this chichi boutique back in San Francisco. I guess she’s given up on trying to throw my shirts out and is trying to cover them up instead.”

 

“Don’t change a thing. What's your next class?” Lydia asked. Allison dug a piece of paper out of her back pocket. 

 

“Music theory,” she said, shouldering her bag. “Do you know how to get to K113?”

 

“I have study hall; I'll walk you,” Lydia said. 

 

“Oh, you don't—”

 

“Trust me, the numbering in that wing makes no sense,” Lydia insisted, tilting her head toward the door. “So why’d you have to move?”

 

Allison dropped her eyes. 

 

“Yeah, I have this... sleep disorder, it’s kind of rare. One of the closest specialists is actually based out of Beacon County. My dad travels a lot for work anyway, so,” she finished with a shrug. 

 

“There are worse places,” Lydia said, for lack of anything else to say. “I mean,  I’m  here, so really every place is, technically.”

 

Allison grinned brightly and laughed.

 

“You have a point; I haven’t met anyone like you anyplace else,” she said. 

 

“And you never will,” Lydia answered with a proud little grin. “So this is K wing. It’s the longest hallway in this ridiculous building, and the odd numbers are on the right, even on the left, but they’re mixed up, so for some reason K113 is between K109 and K105.”

 

Allison gave that deliberate nod again, a charming little tic, and said,

 

“You’re right; that makes no sense,” she said. “Thanks for the escort.”

 

“Of course,” Lydia answered, smiling back at Allison when she realized she was lingering. “The bell’s about to ring. I’ll see you around.”

 

“Thanks again,” Allison called after her, going into the classroom. The door clicked shut, the bell rang, and Lydia made her way to the library.

>  
> 
> _** NME: ** So you’ve always been into music? _
> 
> _** AA: ** I picked up a lot of hobbies, moving around, but music was the easiest to move with me. And, you know, when you move around a lot as a teenager, you don’t have a lot of consistency, but finding local bands to like was kind of my nesting, and seeing my favorites on tour was like having friends come to visit. _
> 
> _** NME: ** But I’ve heard that [Lydia] hadn’t even heard of Kathleen Hanna before you two met. _
> 
> _** LM:  ** [rolling her eyes] Is this going to be another interview about whether I’m authentic enough? _
> 
> _** NME:  ** We brought the Cool List back for you! If that doesn’t say we think you’re authentic, what does? _
> 
> _** LM:  ** [appears to relax as AA touches her shoulder] ...no. I had never heard of Kathleen Hanna, or Lydia Lunch– no relation –or riot grrrl. What I knew about punk was limited to very Top 40, Green Day and Weezer sort of music.  _
> 
> _**NME:** What was the first song Allison played for you? _
> 
> _**LM:** I don’t really remember; there was a mix—  _
> 
> _**AA:** It was “Rebel Girl.” _

 

The rest of Lydia’s day was business as usual. She hadn’t had any other classes with Allison that day, and she’d looked, checking the whole room before she took her seat, glancing toward the door after class had started in the hope that every passing person was just Allison, getting her bearings and running late. Returning to her locker to pack up and go home felt anticlimactic. She wouldn’t have history again until Thursday, and that felt depressingly far.

 

The strange spin of her new padlock reminded Lydia that, oh, right, she and Jackson had broken up again that morning, just as the man himself stormed up to stand beside her.

 

“What the hell is this?” he asked, holding up a key. Lydia glanced at it, then kept trying to find an arrangement of all her school books and returned crap that didn’t seem like it would tear her bag.

 

“It looks like your house key,” she said. She needed her history notebook to copy her notes for Allison, but the textbook could stay, statistics,  ugh econ...

 

“I know it’s my house key!” Jackson snapped. “Why was it in the box?”

 

Lydia shut her locker, deciding that she’d just get whatever wouldn’t comfortably fit in her bag the next day.

 

“That’s how this works, Jackson, I gave your stuff back, you gave my stuff back.”

 

Hurt flashed across Jackson’s face, but for once, he didn’t immediately do or say some asshole thing to cover up for it.

 

“We’ve broken up like five times—” he started.

 

“Six,” Lydia corrected, leaning against her locker and staring across the hallway.

 

“—six, whatever, but…” 

 

Jackson trailed off, then took a deep breath.

 

“You’ve never given back my key before. So what’s different this time?”

 

Lydia fussed with her hair, trying to find words for the situation.

 

“Jackson, don’t you think we’ve broken up enough?” she asked at last, looking at him briefly before going back to staring at the lockers opposite hers. “We break up, we get back together, nothing’s going to be different this time.”

 

“What are you saying?” he asked. 

 

“I don’t want to get back together again,” Lydia said, saying out loud to him what she’d been saying to herself since buying a new lock at 2 am, since putting that house key into the box. “It’s bad for both of us.”

 

She supposed it was too much to hope for, that he’d see reason, that maybe they could be friends after a little healing. Just like that, the shutters slammed down, and he was sneering:

 

“Oh, like you’ve  ever  cared about what’s good for anyone but—”

 

Lydia was trying to decide whether to just walk away or to let Jackson vent when she heard someone behind her.

 

“Hey, really sorry to interrupt,” Allison said, touching Lydia’s sleeve. “I was just wondering if maybe I could get a ride? Something came up and my dad can’t make it, and I’m not sure which of the late busses to take to get home.”

 

Jackson straightened up, sniffing and shrugging.

 

“It’s fine,” he said. “You weren’t interrupting anything important.”

 

Lydia exhaled. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath, but Allison’s hand flattened warm on her shoulder blade, and she felt the difference between the still, quiet breaths of someone trying not to be seen and the easy inhale-exhale of real calm.

 

“I’m sorry if I read that wrong. You just seemed like you really didn’t want to be having that conversation,” Allison said once Jackson was far enough not to hear.

 

“Does that mean you don’t need a ride?” Lydia asked, because that would just be icing on the crappy end of her crappy day.

 

“Need, no, but really want,” Allison said, leaning against the lockers next to Lydia’s. “I’ve got a conversation of my own I don’t want to have.”

 

Lydia tilted her chin, but before she could ask, Allison clarified:

 

“You know the one. ‘How was your  first day at  school,  sweetheart?’” she said, hands clasped together and tucked under her chin, and Lydia couldn’t help herself, smiling.

 

“I haven’t had that conversation since preschool,” she confessed. Allison sighed, dropping her hands to her sides.

 

“I am officially jealous,” she grumbled. “I have had that conversation at least once a year, every year, for as long as I can remember.”

 

“Wow,” Lydia said, “that’s some pretty intense helicopter parenting. How often do you move?”

 

“This is my…” Allison thought for a second. “This is my third high school, and my tenth new school system.”

 

“Are you guys in witness protection or something?” Lydia asked, stepping outside into the sunshine. She regretted the question instantly as Allison dropped her head, staring at her shoes. Lydia gently bumped Allison’s hip with hers (more like Allison’s upper thigh, given the height difference), and gave her her brightest smile.

 

“Teasing, silly,” Lydia said, unlocking the car and putting her stuff in the back seat. “Just as long as you’re not moving away again.”

 

“Nope,” Allison answered, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling up as Lydia got behind the wheel. “I think this time, we’re here for keeps. Hey… would you mind if I came over for a while? I just really don’t want to go home yet.”

 

“No, I don’t mind,” Lydia said, turning towards her own house rather than asking for directions. “I can copy those notes for you, you can tell me what the world’s like outside of Beacon Hills; it’ll be great.”

 

> _**NME:** So whose idea was the band? _
> 
> _**LM:** I think it started when I transferred into Allison’s music theory class.  _
> 
> _**AA:** That was definitely the seed.  _
> 
> _** NME:  ** This is the thing that makes Shady Hawkins so unique: Lydia, you’re on lead vocals, and you write the majority of the music for your songs. _
> 
> _**LM:** That’s right. _
> 
> _** NME:  ** But you don’t play an instrument. _
> 
> _**LM:** Also right. _
> 
> _** NME:  ** How does  that work? _
> 
> _** LM:  ** It’s very simple— _
> 
> _** AA:  ** To you, maybe! _
> 
> _**LM:** —it’s all just mathematical progression. I don’t need to know the instruments, I just need to know the numbers. _
> 
> _**NME:** Shady Hawkins is credited with the popularization of Math Punk.  _
> 
> _** AA: ** Doc Martin’s Doc Martens [Shady Hawkins’ third LP] is actually Lydia’s doctoral defense, turned audible.  _
> 
> _** NME:  ** The time signatures are insane. Allison, was it hard to adapt to things like 11/8 when the music you grew up loving is mostly 4/4? _
> 
> _**LM:** Don’t say it. _
> 
> _** AA:  ** [Lydia] gets mad when I talk about this— _
> 
> _** LM:  ** Because you don’t give yourself enough credit— _
> 
> _** AA:  ** Let me tell it, okay? _
> 
> _ [LM blushes; AA holds her hand] _
> 
> _** AA:  ** This is where I say love at first sight, or at first sound. Because I was into music before I met Lydia— _
> 
> _** NME:  ** Just want to remind our readers here that you play fifteen different instruments. _
> 
> _**AA:** —but I could not handle atypical time signatures very well until I met her. 4/4, waltz, that was easy, but Lydia’s a  genius . I know people throw that word around a lot in music, but she could be in any field she wanted, she is that amazing, not just because  she understands those complex rhythms in a mathematical way, but because she can explain them. If she and I didn’t connect the way we do, I’d still be shouting one-two-three-four at the beginning of every song. I can jump keys and times now as easy as breathing because she taught me how to feel it. _
> 
> _**LM:** You’re such a romantic dork. I love you. _
> 
> _**AA:** I love you, too, you big nerd. _

 

They took turns driving each other to and from school after that first day, sometimes in Lydia’s little black Bug, other days in Allison’s ancient tank of a Volvo station wagon, partly held together with bumper stickers and running on pure bravado. Wednesdays were the exception, when Allison went to go see the specialist for her sleep disorder. 

 

“I need your help after school,” Allison said, bouncing up to Lydia at her locker with her lower lip between her teeth, beaming.

 

“Don’t you have your appointment today?” Lydia asked. Allison rolled her eyes.

 

“I’m blowing it off; this is way more important. They changed the dress code.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I can finally do something I’ve  always  wanted to without getting suspended!” Allison exclaimed, pulling out a set of clippers. 

 

“...shear a sheep?” Lydia asked. 

 

“Shear a me!” Allison answered. “Not my whole head, but I really want to do the Natalie Dormer side-shave thing, but if I try to do it by myself it’ll never be even. Please please please?”

 

Lydia sighed, picking up one of Allison’s curls.

 

“I can’t say no to you, which you know, otherwise you wouldn’t have bothered asking me. My house?”

 

Allison gave a tiny excited squeak and nodded.

 

“Your parents are going to hate me,” Lydia pointed out as Allison stuck the clippers back in her bag. Allison’s parents adored Lydia, partially because studying with her had helped Allison into straight As, and partially because they seemed to hope that Lydia would rub off on their daughter, somehow. Mrs. Argent complimented Lydia’s outfits every time they saw each other, asked her where she got this or that dress, all with meaningful looks at her own daughter. 

 

“That could  only  make you sexier!” Allison grinned, tapping the tip of Lydia’s nose. Lydia rolled her eyes again.

 

“Go to class, rebel girl,” she said. “Meet me at my house after school.”

 

Lydia sighed as Allison hurried off. They’d talked about it, a couple weeks after they met, the idea of a capital-T  Them,  a capital-U  Us. They’d agreed they needed each other as a friend more. Allison was worried about being a rebound from Jackson, and Lydia was worried about that as well. Mostly she was overwhelmed by just how much and how fast her life had recentered around Allison, terrified that she’d wake up one day and Allison would be moving back across the country. Kissing or no kissing, hand holding or not, sex or not, losing Allison would be like losing an arm.

 

Lydia looked at her own hair in the mirror inside her locker door. Most of the glass was obscured when Alison had written on it in Lady Danger red lipstick, “Queen of the Neighborhood” almost a month prior. It was a line from the first song that had come on when Allison had hooked her phone up to Lydia’s aux cable and hit play, belting out the lyrics while Lydia drove them across town to see some band Allison had discovered. Lydia had felt out of place at the dive bar, still did, but she went every time Allison found something old or new that she wanted to share. 

 

When she arrived home, Lydia got towels ready, a pair of scissors, rubber bands and clips to hold the hair Allison wanted to keep out of the way, and sodas. She also set up her bluetooth speakers, since she was pretty sure Allison would want to mark the occasion with music. She put on a mix of her own, singing while she did her homework downstairs in the kitchen and waited for the steamship grind and clunk of Allison’s Volvo. 

 

Allison let herself in, pausing in the doorway. Lydia set her book aside, looking up.

 

“Took you long enough,” she said. Allison just kept staring. “What?”

 

“You never sing in the car,” Allison said, eyes wide, reaching back and shutting the door. 

 

“I don’t usually know the words in the car,” Lydia shrugged. 

 

“Because you always let me pick the music,” Allison said, sitting heavily in a chair near Lydia.

 

“It makes you happy,” Lydia said. “Why are you looking at me like I grew a second head?”

 

“Nothing, just— who is this, anyway?”

 

Lydia checked her phone. 

 

“April March,” she said. “‘Laissez Tomber les Filles. I like it; it’s French.”

 

Allison still seemed stunned, so Lydia paused it.

 

“Okay, earth to Allison,” she said, turning her chair so that they faced each other better. “I’m not going to respect you any less because there’s one band in the universe you don’t already know. Are we doing this hair thing or what?”

 

Allison seemed to snap out of it at the mention of hair, diving into her bag for the clippers and a few sheets of paper, then scampering up the stairs to Lydia’s bathroom like it was Christmas morning, Lydia trailing after her. 

 

Lydia plugged the clippers into the wall, looking at the printouts of Natalie Dormer that Allison had brought.

 

“So… what, like here?” Lydia asked, combing a low side part into Allison’s hair and pulling it into a ponytail. Allison stood, looking in the mirror.

 

“Sure,” she shrugged, sitting back on the closed toilet. “Cut it all off.”

 

“You’re sure,” Lydia asked, wrapping a rubber band around the side they were cutting as well.

 

“It’s just hair,” Allison laughed. “If it looks stupid, I’ll cut it all off and it’ll grow back.”

 

Lydia took a deep breath and picked up the scissors.

 

“Okie dokie,” she said, taking the smaller ponytail in her hand, holding her breath, and cutting it off above the rubber band. Allison laughed harder as Lydia set it on the counter, putting the scissors down and picking up the clippers.

 

“Did you just say ‘okie dokie?’” she asked. Lydia threw a towel at her. 

 

“Shut up and put that over your shoulders.”

 

Allison obeyed, and said,

 

“Put some music on,” adding, “Nah, let’s listen to yours,” when Lydia held her hand out for Allison’s phone. Lydia put her playlist back on, singing along to this or that song on her playlist while she tried to shave an arc in Allison’s hair most complimentary to the shape of her skull. Allison’s phone rang, and she declined the call without looking. Lydia’s phone rang after that, interrupting the music.

 

“It’s your dad,” she said. Allison sighed.

 

“Let it ring,” she said. Lydia frowned, making a couple more passes over the hair she’d already cut to make it more even. 

 

“Are you in trouble?” she asked, brushing the fine bits of hair off Allison’s skin with a damp washcloth. 

 

“I’m going to be,” Allison admitted, standing and smiling at herself in the mirror. Lydia jumped slightly when Allison spun around and hugged her tighter than she ever had before, but hugged her back all the same.

 

“Easy on the ribs, Supergirl,” Lydia wheezed. 

 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Allison asked, letting go immediately. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

 

“You are being so weird,” Lydia said, demanding, “What is going on?”

 

Allison bit her lip, shaking her head, now with considerably less hair. “I can’t—” 

 

She looked up, startled, like she’d been interrupted. A few seconds later, the doorbell rang, followed immediately by a very firm knock. 

 

“Allison!” a man shouted. 

 

“Is that your dad?” Lydia asked. Allison groaned, squeezing Lydia’s hand. “Allison, what the hell—”

 

“I should go,” Allison said, getting up and bolting down the stairs. Lydia hurried after her, opening the door. Mr. Argent wasn’t alone on the other side.

 

“Mrs. Hale?” Lydia asked. “What are— is everything okay?”

 

Mrs. Hale smiled while Mr. Argent scowled. 

 

“Allison needs to come home now,” he said, putting his phone to his ear. “I found her. I’ll see you at home.”

 

Allison squeezed Lydia’s shoulder behind her, stepping around her.

 

“Seriously, Allison?” her father complained, making sure that Lydia got her share of the disappointed glare.

 

“I know she missed her appointment, but it’s just one—” Lydia started, and Mr. Argent’s expression turned from disappointed to borderline murder.

 

“For my sleeping disorder,” Allison blurted. “My appointment for my sleep disorder, Dad.”

 

Lydia looked suspiciously between the three of them.

 

“Mrs. Hale is your sleep specialist?” she asked. Allison and Mr. Argent both nodded too quickly, while Mrs. Hale neither confirming nor denying. “I thought you edited a magazine.”

 

“She’s very talented,” Chris interjected. “Allison. Now. I hope you have everything because you are grounded for a  month. ”

 

Allison went very still at that.

 

“You can’t keep me from seeing Lydia,” she said, lower and flatter than Lydia had ever heard from her before. 

 

“You do  not tell me what I can and can’t do, young lady; I tell you,” he snapped. “And you have been  incredibly  irresponsible recently. Maybe some time alone would do you some good.”

 

“You  can’t, ” Allison snarled at him, louder now.

 

“Lydia, perhaps you should go back inside,” Mrs. Hale suggested, reaching to steer Lydia into her own house.

 

“Do not touch her!” Allison shouted at her, and Mrs. Hale raised both hands, glancing away. 

 

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Mr. Argent yelled back. “You’re acting like a rabid animal!” 

 

The next thing out of Allison’s mouth was totally incoherent, just a wet growling noise as she balled her fist and drew her arm back. 

 

“ Stop it! ” Lydia shrieked, grabbing Allison around the waist. Both Mrs. Hale and Allison slapped their hands over their ears, but Allison’s hands went lax as Lydia pushed her face against Allison’s shoulder blade. “Stop. Allison, stop. It’s okay, we’ll see each other at school, don’t… it’s okay, Allison.”

 

Allison trembled under her cheek before twisting around, kissing Lydia’s hair, then her forehead, then the corner of her mouth.

 

“I’m sorry, Lydia, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, still shaking. “I have to go, but I’ll explain everything, I promise, okay?”

 

Lydia nodded, hugging back. 

 

“If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’m calling the sheriff, because this is really scaring me, Allison,” Lydia whispered to her. Allison nodded, letting go slowly, like it hurt her to pull away, but she let Mrs. Hale guide her to her car. 

 

“I’m sorry for raising my voice,” Mr. Argent said stiffly. 

 

“My best friend is incredibly scared right now,” Lydia said. “If I find out that it’s because of you, I don’t know what I’ll do to you, but I will make sure that she is safe from you.”

 

“She’s my daughter,” Mr. Argent protested. “I could never—”

 

“Make sure you don’t,” Lydia snapped. Mr. Argent turned away, stopping by Mrs. Hale’s car to take Allison’s keys from her. Allison looked so damned small as she waved, Lydia biting her lip hard against a sob as she waved back. The fact that the Volvo was moving at all without Allison at the wheel made Lydia feel sick to her stomach. She didn’t go back inside until she couldn’t hear it clanking in the distance anymore. 

 

Upstairs, she rinsed off the clippers, dried them and put them in a drawer, then carefully gathered all the towels and put them in the wash, methodically sweeping up the tiny bits of hair that had escaped to the floor. She picked up her phone, turned off the speakers, and burst into tears when she looked at the bundle of long dark curls that still lay on her counter. 

 

> _**NME:** So a lot of people worry about the stability of a band when there’s a couple involved, is that— _
> 
> _**LM:** That’s an entire other article right there. The modern media romanticises the idea of ‘tempestuous relationships’ in bands, I swear, like every pair of collaborators has to be like Lennon and McCartney, or the Gallagher brothers. People can work together creatively without hating each other. _
> 
> _**AA:** Not every married couple turn out like Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore. Lydia and I were best friends before we were girlfriends, and we went through a lot together. We’ve proven time and again that we have each other’s backs, that we can count on each other. The band is a wonderful thing, and I’m thrilled every day that people love our music, but the music doesn’t hold a candle to the marriage. It’s not something I can explain. _
> 
> _** LM:  ** Allison will always come first for me. It’s just lucky that the band makes us both happy. If people didn’t like it, we’d just sing in our living room until the neighbors called the cops. _
> 
> _** NME:  ** Does it help that you both have sleep disorders, or is it tricky having two people in the same house who both sometimes sleepwalk? _
> 
> _** LM:  ** We prefer not to discuss that. _
> 
> _** AA:  ** That’s one of those things we like to keep to ourselves. I can say that we are both safe and happy. _

 

Lydia was lying on her bed, having cried herself to sleep with the lock of Allison’s hair laying on the pillow beside her when her phone rang, startling her awake. Allison’s number was on the screen, and Lydia hit the accept button.

 

“Allison? Are you there? Are you okay?” she asked. “Where are you?”

 

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” Allison said, sounding exhausted. “I’m with Mrs. Hale, at the... clinic.”

 

“What kind of sleep clinic lets you make calls in the middle of the night?” Lydia demanded. Somewhere in the background, she heard laughter. “Am I on speaker?”

 

“No, just… no,” Allison sighed. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

 

“Where are you really? Allison, if you don’t tell me, I swear I’m calling the police.”

 

Allison whimpered, and said,

 

“Hang on.” 

 

After a moment, a new voice came on the line.

 

“Hello Lydia, this is Talia Hale. I promise you that Allison is completely safe, and she is fine.”

 

“She doesn’t sound fine,” Lydia replied. “And she definitely was  not  fine when you and her dad took her away.”

 

“Do you know where my house is, out in the Preserve?” Mrs. Hale asked. Lydia’s breath caught. 

 

“Yes,” she said. It was a large house in the middle of a protected wilderness, everyone in Beacon Hills knew where it was. 

 

“I think Allison would feel better if you were with her,” Mrs. Hale said, “but I need to know that she’s right to trust you.”

 

“If Allison is safe, I won’t tell anyone anything,” Lydia said. “Not if she doesn’t want me to.”

 

“That’s good enough for me,” Mrs. Hale agreed. “I’ll meet you at the foot of the drive.”

 

Before Lydia could ask anything else, Mrs. Hale disconnected the call. Lydia shoved her feet into shoes, hid the lock of hair under her pillow, and ran to her car, phone clutched tight.

 

Mrs. Hale was waiting where she said she’d be, a strange figure in flowy white among the dark trees, like a ghost in Lydia’s headlights. She smiled and waved, which was so normal that it just made the whole situation more surreal. She came around to the passenger side and got in.

 

“So, you need to brace yourself,” Mrs. Hale said. “Keep driving, just go slowly.”

 

Lydia crept along the dirt road, foot barely on the gas. 

 

“Allison doesn’t have a sleep disorder,” Mrs. Hale said. “But she does have a condition. Do you know what’s special about tonight?”

 

“Iran Hostage Crisis, the Apple Lisa, first computer virus—” Lydia began rattling off. Mrs. Hale cut her off:

 

“It’s the full moon.”

 

Lydia was briefly silent, before squawking,

 

“So?!”

 

“It’ll make sense in a minute,” Mrs. Hale assured her, looking infuriatingly amused. “Please don’t drive into my house.”

 

Lydia slammed on the brakes, threw it into park, and got out. Mrs. Hale did as well, patiently strolling up to the front door as Lydia looked up at the house, leaping nearly a foot into the air as a series of howls chorused from the woods.

 

“What the hell was that?” Lydia whispered. Mrs. Hale unlocked the door and held it open for her. Lydia had a brief moment of deciding if she wanted to go into the clearly insane person’s house who was possibly holding the love of Lydia’s life hostage, or a dark forest full of something that howled, and went inside. 

 

There was a notable lack of disembodied hands running around, giant butlers, or any other Addams or Munster family stuff going on inside. It was just a house. 

 

“Ugh, you’re back, can I go  out now? ” a girl’s voice called up from the floor below. 

 

“Just a minute, Cora!” Mrs. Hale called back. “We have company.”

 

“Duh!” the girl called back. Mrs. Hale sighed, beckoning Lydia downstairs. 

 

“Is that Lydia?” a voice asked, quieter and rougher but nonetheless Allison. Lydia darted past Mrs. Hale and bolted down the stairs.

 

“Allison?! Allison!” Lydia shouted, nearly tripping, only to get grabbed by a girl about her age in a sports bra and yoga pants. 

 

“Whoa, red, where do you think you’re going?” she said, and Lydia put together that this was Cora Hale, captain of the women’s soccer team at BHHS. 

 

“Let her go, Cora,” Mrs. Hale ordered, and the girl took her hands off immediately. 

 

“Any more alphas want to yell at me today? Because this is super fun,” the girl snapped. 

 

“This is a dungeon,” Lydia squeaked, looking around at the rows of iron bars and chains hanging from the walls. “Why do you have a dungeon?”

 

“Lydia, it’s okay,” Allison said from the corner of the room, behind bars, and in chains. 

 

“This is not okay!” Lydia replied, yanking at the door of her cell. “This is the set of Hostel, how is this okay?” 

 

“Calm down, Lydia,” Allison begged. “I can’t keep calm if you’re panicking.” 

 

“Lydia,” Mrs. Hale said softly. “Look at Allison. Does she look hurt?”

 

Lydia finally looked at Allison, really looked. Her fingernails were long and pointed, her hair a mess, and her eyes glowed red. 

 

“This isn’t funny,” Lydia said. “This is not a sleep disorder.”

 

The girl, Cora, snorted.

 

“Sleep disorder?  Wow.  I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” 

 

“Cora, go find the others,” Mrs. Hale sighed. Allison’s lip curled, a low rumble coming from the corner as Cora’s face turned hairy and her eyes flashed yellow. She breezed past Lydia and up the stairs, the door slamming behind her. Mrs. Hale pulled up a chair and gestured for Lydia to sit in another. Lydia glared at the chair like it was a bear trap and stayed standing, close to the bars.

 

“The Hales are the most powerful werewolf family on the west coast,” Mrs. Hale began. “You go to the same school as Cora, so you know that she’s not a monster.”

 

“Debatable,” Lydia muttered, mouth shutting hard as Mrs. Hale’s eyes flashed red. 

 

“She isn’t. Neither am I, neither is Allison, and neither are you. The Argents moved to Beacon Hills for my help. One can be born a werewolf, or bitten by an alpha and turned into one. Your friend Allison was bitten by a rogue alpha in the midwest. Fortunately for her, her parents knew what was going on.”

 

“They’re werewolves too?” Lydia asked. Mrs. Hale laughed shortly at that, a slightly more refined version of her daughter’s derisive snort.

 

“My family were hunters, Lydia,” Allison’s weary voice supplied. “Some of them still are. They helped me to kill the rogue alpha who bit me before she could bite anyone else. That was supposed to turn me human again.”

 

“An old wives tale,” Mrs. Hale corrected. “I would have thought the Argents of all people would have known better.”

 

“What actually happens when you kill an alpha werewolf is you become one, if you’re a werewolf already,” Allison sighed. “So we moved back here. My parents quit the supernatural hunting business, and Talia— Mrs. Hale— agreed to help me.”

 

“If it’s the full moon and you’re a werewolf, why aren’t you in a cage? Why wasn’t Cora?” Lydia asked, sinking down to sit on the floor against the bars.

 

“We know how to control ourselves any time of the month,” Mrs. Hale answered. “And that’s what we’re teaching Allison.”

 

Lydia looked back at Allison through the bars, then reached as far as she could into the cage. Allison reached back, palm up, just able to brush their fingertips together.

 

“Why did you decide to tell me?” Lydia asked Allison, but Mrs. Hale answered. 

 

“Werewolves gain control by holding onto an idea which is close to their humanity. We were trying music for Allison’s anchor. Usually a werewolf has a dominant sense, and hers seems to be her hearing. It was going fairly well, but not well enough to have her on her own on the full moon. That’s why her parents and I were so concerned when she didn’t show up this afternoon.”

 

Mrs. Hale got up and walked closer, sitting on the floor near Lydia.

 

“She was acting on instinct. Sometimes the anchor is a concept, sometimes it’s more concrete.”

 

“Like a place?” Lydia asked.

 

“Person,” Allison said with a half-smile, sounding so much more like herself. Lydia looked where their fingers touched to see that Allison’s nails were normal again, her eyes back to brown. 

 

“Allison went to you instead of me because you’re her anchor. She was in perfect control until her father threatened to separate you.”

 

Lydia stared at Allison, swallowing hard. 

 

“Can you leave us alone?” Lydia asked. Mrs. Hale nodded. 

 

“It’s a lot,” she said. “It’s all right if you need time.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you,” Allison said. “I promised my parents, and Talia. I think my parents were still hoping for a cure.”

 

“It’s okay,” Lydia said. “It’s super weird that there’s a clan of werewolves and that the local magazine editor is their alpha, but it’s okay.”

 

Allison giggled at that.

 

“She’ll be able to hear no matter what,” Allison said, laying her head against the wall. “Just a heads up.”

 

Lydia shrugged, and smiled.

 

“‘That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighborhood,’” she whispered. Allison burst out laughing at that, whispering back,

 

“‘I got news for you: She is!’” Allison exhaled, stretching to get as much contact between their fingers as she could. “You’re being really cool about the whole anchor thing.”

 

“I kinda wanted to talk about us anyway,” Lydia admitted. “And I figure you can’t get mad about it since I’m being so cool.”

 

“Please say you want to be girlfriends,” Allison asked, tired face still bright with hope. 

 

“Way to ruin the surprise,” Lydia replied. “I love you.”

 

Allison pulled with her free arm, and there was a scrape and a creak as she managed to pull the bolt out of the wall.

 

“Holy shit,” Lydia laughed. Allison scooted over so that their sides touched through the bars.

 

“What, you don’t want to hold hands through the bars?” she asked. Lydia laced their fingers together. “Cool.”

 

“First kiss will have to wait ‘til you’re not behind bars,” Lydia said, squeezing. “I’m not starting this relationship out with some kind of conjugal visit.”

 

“Now who’s queen of the neighborhood?” Allison answered.

 

_** NME:  ** How did you decide the band name? _

_** LM:  ** The name is almost a year older than the band. _

_** AA:  ** It was right after we got together romantically. It had just been a rough couple of days beforehand— nothing too serious, but when you’re seventeen, you feel everything  so much. We were both really tired from some family drama.  _

_** LM:  ** So we took a mental health day. My mom was out of town, so we just stayed in bed, watched movies, ate junk food, and talked.  _

_** AA:  ** Lydia asked if I ever wanted to start a band of my own, and what I’d name it. _

 

Neither of them got much sleep the night of Allison’s first full moon. By the time Lydia drove them home from the Preserve to her house just after dawn, both of them were so exhausted that they just tumbled into Lydia’s bed and passed out for another four hours. 

 

Despite having had the rougher night, Allison was awake and gazing at Lydia when she opened her eyes. 

 

“Mmh. What time is it?” Lydia asked. Allison craned her neck to see the alarm clock. 

 

“Little before nine thirty,” she answered. “We could still make third period—”

 

Lydia wrinkled her nose that that idea, squinching her eyes shut with a little grunt of disapproval.

 

“Or we could take a mental health day?” Allison offered, and Lydia gave her a beatific smile.

Allison sat up and stretched.

 

“You know, you can just tell me the right answer if there’s something you wanna do,” Allison yawned. 

 

“‘S part of my mystique,” Lydia mumbled, making another grumpy noise as Allison got up out of bed. Allison grabbed the hand that Lydia stretched after her and kissed her knuckles before letting it fall back to the mattress.

 

“I’m going to get a shower, if that’s okay,” Allison said. Lydia nodded against her pillow.

 

“You can borrow my pajamas,” she yawned. She dozed to the white noise of the shower while Allison washed up, vaguely tracking the pale blur of Allison’s legs through her eyelashes until Allison sat back down on the bed. Lydia got up and stretched.

 

“I guess I should clean up too. I’m pretty sure I have dungeon moss in my hair from the Hales’ basement,” she sighed. She stood, passing Allison the remote control from her bedside table. “Find us something trashy to watch.”

 

Allison laughed at that, turning on the TV and rearranging two of over a dozen pillows to make herself comfortable. Lydia’s pajama bottoms were about six inches too short on Allison’s long legs, so Lydia tossed a blanket over Allison’s feet on her way to the bathroom. She left the door open so she could hear over the water. Allison channel surfed for a while before settling on Pop Up Video reruns. 

 

“If you had a band, what would you want to call it?” Lydia asked when she was done, hopping back onto the bed as she toweled her hair dry. 

 

“The Lydia Martin is My Girlfriend Experience,” Allison answered. Lydia bumped her shoulder against Allison’s.

 

“Seriously,” Lydia insisted, tossing the towel away and resting her head on Allison’s shoulder. “You should start a band.”

 

Allison turned so that they could see eye to eye, one hand under her own cheek, trapping one of Lydia’s ankles between her own. 

 

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Allison said. “I’ve always wanted to, but it seemed pointless when we’d probably just move again, or when I was already struggling to catch up with schoolwork.”

 

“But now? Because I will be personally offended if you think I’d let you let your GPA slip,” Lydia said. Allison smiled, feet wriggling playfully as she wrapped an arm around Lydia and tugged her closer.

 

“We’d have to find more people. I can’t play all the instruments,” Allison pointed out. Lydia shrugged. 

 

“Isn’t that what auditions are for?” she asked. Allison nodded.

 

“In a month or two,” she said. “Right now, I want the Lydia Martin is My Girlfriend Experience all to myself. And since I’m no longer behind bars, maybe that experience could include kissing?”

 

“You’re such a romantic dork,” Lydia grinned, and leaned in. Allison met her in the middle, smiles colliding and then relaxing as Lydia’s hand found its way back into Allison’s hair. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Allison said between kisses, “you big nerd.”

 

> _** LM:  ** One of my biggest problems with music scenes in general is the whole authenticity thing. I can get pretty defensive about it, but it’s frustrating when it feels like you’re not being judged for your passion or your talent but this arbitrary list of punk prerequisites.  _
> 
> _** AA:  ** When all punk is really about at the end of the day is rebellion. _
> 
> _**LM:** And you can rebell in a lot of different ways.  _
> 
> _** AA:  ** Anyone who thinks that Lydia is less punk because she loves pink and floral print is an idiot. She’s been rebelling against the stereotype that femme is automatically less intelligent, to be taken less seriously, since the day we met.  _
> 
> _** LM: ** Pun aside, we don’t need anyone’s invitation but each other’s.  _
> 
> _** AA:  ** So we picked the name Shady Hawkins. We’ll pick each other, every time. _
> 
>   
>  __


End file.
